


i will show you fear in a handful of dust

by aretheymirrors



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Hellenistic Religion & Lore)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aretheymirrors/pseuds/aretheymirrors
Summary: The divine, who are reincarnated for all eternity, know many things. He has seen the earth razed and rebuilt over and over again. He knows the sky and the sea, the air and the trees and all that they bring about. If there is one thing he does not fully understand, it is death. He has seen enough of it over thousands of years, but he would be lying if he said he imagined death to look like her. Death, in his mind, doesn't have hair like wheat fields in summer and eyes the clear blue of Aegean shallows. Death does not wash wounds with patient hands and murmur reassurances. Death does not exude this much life. Yet he sees her and he knows.orthe genderswapped hades/persephone reincarnation modern au that nobody asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first part of a mostly written, longer story, that I will probably take down and put up in its entirety once edited. This is just the first 4k or so that I'm putting up to gauge whether its worth it so comments would be greatly appreciated!

Dawn is bathed in warm, honeyed light. The florist on his street with the laugh lines and the kind eyes smiles at him as if he’s in on a secret. Bellamy doesn’t try to hide it. The flowers bloom brighter, and he walks on. He wonders if anyone will notice the grass shooting through cracks in the pavement. 

  
Millennia have passed and the constancy of change never fails to amaze him. Mud to stone, marble to concrete, what is built is broken and built again. It’s tragic and impossibly hopeful. He sees glass buildings catch the light and come to life. In his hands everything does. He supposes that's why they still walk the Earth, living as mortals over and over again, keeping vigil. 

  
He likes this lifetime but it makes him afraid. His sister tells him she's curating for a museum in Milan. His sister is lying. Octavia, _he thought she'd appreciate the throwback_ , her realm is a vice of gods and mortals alike. War will exist as true and violent as the nature of those that make it. She is somewhere in Chechnya, he thinks, making her home in the wreckage. And she may be divinity, but in this lifetime he is her guardian, and he worries. Her purpose has always mystified him. Ares, _Octavia_ , acted on emotion in almost every lifetime. Hardened but never hopeless. He wonders what she fights for today. 

  
Conflict has always come naturally to Athena as well. He sees General Lexa Woods on television from time to time, the cold steel of her gaze all too familiar. Hers is a far more measured wrath, and she wields power with the ease and grace of someone who knows they are born to it. She has a temper, he knows it well, but it manifests itself in ways that have far reaching, devastating consequences. He hasn't met her in person, not  being famous or important enough. For this, he thanks the Fates. 

  
Working in forest preservation has taken him to places and people that despite all his years surprise him. He is a God, and has kept company of Gods since the very beginning, but to be mortal and divine at once is a continuance of revelation. He has watched as humans think far ahead their own lives, reckoning with the universe in ways beyond the fathom of previous generations. It pushes him to think with critique, with compassion. Through the centuries, he finds himself growing more and more intrigued by the human condition. The  sense of detachment, a mandate of the Gods, has disappeared, and he find new facets of altruism, pathos, and morality everyday. He has seen the euphoria of love and the bitterness of corruption. He understands what it is to be human, how can one not after so long? Yet he cannot be at oneself with it, and it's a conundrum for the ages. _Am I Persephone in mortal skin? Is that all I am?_ These are questions that have remained unanswered. 

  
He’s going to the depths of the Northeast Indian forests, where the vagaries of urban life haven’t yet touched the people. A concept that has endured through the years is the innate superiority of the city. The body politic is refined and intellectual. It is the bedrock of progress in every form and the centre of life. Gods and mortals alike have accepted this to be a somewhat insurmountable truth, but he has always been a bit of a contrarian in this regard. He remembers the crumbling of the Amazon, and his time with those who inhabited it. He made the forests stronger and watch them grow beyond the harm any men could hope to do. "You see, they know a secret, and they have kept it well", he recalls his conversation with Apollo a few years prior, "They know who I am, know it in their bones, and they trust me with their home."

  
There is violence in the parts he is headed to, it always arises when there is strife. He wonders sometimes about his sister. She thrives on violence, but he cannot bring himself to harden his heart against her. _She destroys because she must_ , he repeats this to himself like a prayer, a confession, a hollow comfort.

  
The flight is transatlantic and further still. He lands in the capital, and the sun beats hot and dry on the tarmac. The synthetic cool of the terminal is somewhat jarring. He walks to his connecting flight, almost in a trance. Airports have an eerie way of suspending time. A strange aberration that even he cannot escape. There is still a bit of a ways to go. The depths of the Khasi hills lie beyond serpentine roadways carved through lands as ancient as his father.

   
_The air is different here_ is his first thought as he walks towards his team. There’s about 20 of them, ranging from experienced locals to excitable volunteers fresh out of college. He's somewhat in the middle of the pack. His mien exudes youth and rejuvenation but nobody mistakes it for naïveté. As he approaches, they seem to wake up. The tightness in their shoulders seems to ease and the exhaustion from the journey melts into determination for what they face ahead. Bellamy knows this is the effect he has, but something is off. _There's something heavy in the atmosphere_. It's almost as if gravity is pulling him towards the earth. It's visceral and out of his control. The sensation is equal parts enthralling and terrifying. For once he has no idea what this is, and all he can do is carry on. The engine roars to life, the sinking feeling tugs at him once again. 

  
The journey is breathtaking, though the solitude is disconcerting to the cityborn mortals. The woods thicken the further they travel. When they arrive at the village the team has been so engulfed by the foliage that urban life seems a distant memory. The tribal forest dwellers are a proud, decisive people. Resilient despite centuries of deprivation. They are strong but every step betrays a strange weariness that belies human effort. The heavy sensation grows in Bellamy's veins, his heart lurches and the inexplicable nature of this disturbs him. It's a discomfort that settles in his bones, constantly shifting against his conscience like a puzzle piece that isn't quite the right fit.

  
The villagers are suspicious of them. He speaks the language, _he speaks every language_ , and their apprehension isn't unfounded. History has wrought generations of oppression upon them. It's all he can do to make sure they are not without food and shelter. _I hope_ mother _is proud_ , the thought floats around in his head more often than he would expect it to. He hasn't met or heard from Demeter in his years as Bellamy. Wherever she may be, he hopes she is at peace.  
The rain is abundant here, and his presence is not the only source of magic. He spots oreads and hamadryads in trees so old that their roots form bridges over clear streams and waterfalls that even the concrete roads carved through the hills cannot escape. There are spirits too, ancestral to the tribes, and every inch of ground feels hallowed. 

  
Whispers are heard in these mountains, whispers of violent rebellion.  People have been going missing. His team is concerned, but the locals don't seem to be. This unrest isn't out of the ordinary. The government never really treated these tribal regions with anything but neglect. The conflicts and struggles were dismissed, and the dissenters were well hidden in this systemic ignorance. He usually isn't bothered by this. He has worked in the forgotten parts of the world where the ground is soaked with blood, and roads are built on bones. Deprivation begets violence, it always has. This time something is different. When he hears talk of these activities, his senses go into overdrive and the deep sense of foreboding he has felt since he arrived becomes all the more pervasive. _I am no mortal, I will not let this shake me_. A few of the volunteers choose to leave, and he fights off the urge to join them. _If something is indeed coming, then I can keep the people safe_. He repeats this to himself over and over. _Besides, there is work to be done_

  
 Days go by, then weeks and the nagging weight on his psyche doesn't go away. He tries to distract himself in the company of a local woman. She's a young member of the village council, and convinces her peers to work in tandem with Bellamy and the rest of the volunteers. He sees lingering suspicion in her eyes, though, whenever they meet his. Her face reminds him of a nymph who loved a vain man long ago. _Echo_ , he recalls. That seems to be where the similarities end. She is strong willed and cunning, often unpredictable and always wary. It took longer than he would have liked to earn her trust.

  
"You have something on your mind", she says one night. He rolls over to look at her. It's neither a question nor an accusation. 

  
"Doesn't everyone?"

  
"Something has been bothering you." This time it is a question as well as an accusation. He fights the urge to smile. Very little gets past her, and to his own discredit he underestimates her intuition. Even if he chose to reply, he would not know how. He doesn't know what it is that's bothering him. It's confounding and frustrating and refreshingly human. 

  
"Why do you say that?"

  
"I can tell" 

  
"Well, nothing here has happened that would trouble me. Unless that changes, I'm not concerned." He wonders if she can tell that he's wrestling with his own thoughts. He knows that she can tell he's deflecting, and all he can do is wait. She looks at him for a long time, an inscrutable expression on her face. The silence stretches, brittle and awkward. Finally she curls into him and falls asleep. 

  
She's gone in the morning, and there is no sign of her for a week. He asks her brother Roan about it, and is brushed off with an iciness that is almost impressive. A thick mist cloaks the mountains like a funeral shroud, and it feels as though all sunlight is being slowly leeched out; An exsanguination of life itself. 

  
He doesn't see her again until a few weeks later when the sound of gunshots ring out in the air. He had taken a team of volunteers across the hills to another tribe. They're near a particularly steep rockfall when the sound of boots on rustling leaves disturb the peace. The first shot is fired and chaos pervades the atmosphere, and does so at an alarming speed. People are falling, screaming as men and women in camouflage open fire. Rage bubbles up within him and it's all he can do not to let it consume him. It seems my sister is with me. He tries to get his team together so they can find their way through, but several have fallen down the hill, and others are in a panic. The rebels don't seem to be shooting indiscriminately, rather they seek to capture. He's trying to keep calm, keep his people calm. It works to an extent, most bullets miss fatal areas and the rebels grow somewhat sluggish but the noise and fear and disorientation do not subside. Something hits the back of his head and he falls supine to the ground. The last thing he sees are Echo's eyes, grey as the sky, and clear as they have ever been. There is a rifle in her hands, held not an inch from his heart. She moves fast, and everything goes black. 

  
He regains consciousness and is greeted with darkness. There’s an incessant pounding at the back of his head. That nagging pull on his senses has intensified and seeks to drag him down, down, down. He does not know how to yield, and this is not a battle. 

  
Despite his physiology having a mind of its own, rationally he finds there is no need to panic. _After all, this isn’t the first cavern in the middle of nowhere I have been trapped in and it will not be the last_.  There are groans and shallow breaths all around him, but it is too dim to see clearly. He quickly orients himself and his vision improves. Some of his team are among the dozens who lie side by side, injured and in shock. Some are bandaged up, others are hooked to IV drips, likely stolen.  _They kept us alive_. The thought is not comforting. _Something is very, very off._

  
He sees her then and instantly, he knows. 

  
x----------------------------------------------------x----------------------------------------------------x

  
The divine, who are reincarnated for all eternity, know many things. He has seen the earth razed and rebuilt over and over again. He knows the sky and the sea, the air and the trees and all that they bring about. If there is one thing he does not fully understand, it is death. He has seen enough of it over thousands of years, but he would be lying if he said he imagined death to look like _her_. Death, in his mind, doesn't have hair like wheat fields in summer and eyes the clear blue of Aegean shallows. Death does not wash wounds with patient hands and murmur reassurances. Death does not exude this much _life_. Yet he sees her and he knows

.   
She hasn't looked at him once, and a familiar shock of anger flares within him. It all starts to make sense. She knows who he is, he's certain of it. Yet she doesn't face him and continues binding a head wound. All this chaos and apprehension has been a consequence of her presence and she carries on as if all this decay isn't on her shoulders. The fact that the Lord of the Underworld stands before him as a healer, and does not acknowledge him wounds the Olympian pride that he has tried so hard to repress. There is so much to process and he does not know where to begin. So he doesn't. 

  
"Hades" his voice is hard, almost shaking. Whether the edge is a consequence of fury or fear, he does not know. She turns to him then, and he gets a better look at her. She is beautiful, yes, a dream crested in gold, but her eyes are shadowed and her skin pale. 

  
"My name is Clarke Griffin" When she speaks, it is without inflection. His fury piques and he suddenly starts to feel stifled in the half light.

  
"Do you think I do not see who you truly are?" His voice is louder now. It takes a beat for him to realise that he has spoken in the ancient tongue. She replies in kind, still quiet, still steady, completely infuriating.

  
"I know you do, but now is not the time. Rest." 

  
The tempest in his mind gives way to indignation. He usually doesn't indulge such trivial attitudes, but the commander of death is being condescending and for some reason he cannot help himself, "Do not tell me what to do. This is not your realm" 

  
Something flashes in Hades', _Clarke Griffin's_ , eyes for a moment so fleeting he must have imagined it. She studies him, and he feels something prickling under his skin. He does not fear her, and he certainly doesn't trust her, yet her gaze unnerves him because he doesn't sense any malevolence in it. Only inquisition and something else he cannot quite place. _No, this is not at all how I imagined Death would greet me_. She reaches for him then, and he cannot bring himself to flinch away. Her fingers, calloused but ever so gentle, just barely touching him. She looks straight into him.

  
"Rest" it's barely a whisper, almost a breath, and he feels the tug and this times he yields. This time the blackness is welcome as his eyes fall closed. 

  
x----------------------------------------------------x----------------------------------------------------x

  
" _You're in distress. You won't get anywhere on a leg wounded that badly_ " , as he comes to, he hears the gravel of her voice a few feet away from him, trying to calm one of the members of his team. It's a local boy, scared out of his mind, struggling in vain to stand., Ksan is his name, Bellamy recalls. His leg is mangled, bleeding and twisted at an odd angle. Still he tries, pushing hard against her. Bellamy almost laughs. Her hands just barely skim the boys shoulders, holding him down with no effort at all. There is no indication of pain on his face, only fear. An armed rebel strides up to them and cocks his gun, "shut him up or I will shoot!" 

  
Bellamy can't help but call out to the boy "Stop struggling! You're hurt". He sees Bellamy and calms. He knows that the boy trusts him to keep him safe, or alive at any rate. Something shifts within him at the awareness that he may not be able to deliver on such confidence. He stands up gingerly, as if to test whether any vestige of the sleep forced upon him remains. He finds himself more clearheaded than usual as he makes his way towards her. 

  
Before either of them can speak, the rebels enter with more wounded villagers. None of the injuries are lethal, but the agony and dread emanating from every one of them is suffocating. He tries to bring them some peace, a small mercy and the least he can do. He remembers Echo's face and his blood boils. _I never knew her, not truly_.  Yet Echo isn't causing this turmoil within him, _she_ is. He has so many questions, and the dim awareness of the fact that he needs to assess the situation is clouded by wave after wave of emotions he cannot begin to contend with. All of this roiling in his head. _Is this what Death brings? A dive into fathoms so deep and unknown that one cannot hope to come up for air?_

  
"Why are you here?"

  
She turns around, a bit surprised, considers him for a few moments, and goes back to cleaning an open wound. Irritation bubbles up within him again. He's one of the more patient gods around, but there are limits. "Forgive me if I am not as passive as the deceased, princess." 

  
He is rewarded with her chagrin, a halt in motion and narrowing of eyes.  _I got to her_. If a part of him knows that smugness is unbecoming, he chooses to ignore it.

  
"I'm not a _princess_ " the distaste in her voice is the first sign of any inflection, a ripple in still waters. He presses on.

  
"Why are you working for them?"

  
"I do not work for anyone"'

  
"Yet here you are"

  
"I'm trying to keep everyone alive."

  
"A task the mistress of Death is naturally suited to, I take it."

  
She turns towards him at that, her face a mask, her eyes a storm, "And what would you know of Death?"

  
He does not know how to answer to that. Death has always been tangential to him. The downfall of heroes in the days of old, or that of mortal loved ones in previous lifetimes. A passing pain, a fleeting curiosity. He never thought beyond that, and he never wanted to. Clarke motions towards a bucket of water and a rag, "Ksan is running hot, would you mind?"  

  
He tries not to consider the situation too deeply. Hades herself is somehow in the same cave in the middle of nowhere, essentially a doctor, and is now ordering him around as if this is routine? He picks up the bucket because he can’t think of anything else to do. The next few hours are spent in healing and comfort. Clarke works mostly in silence, speaking only to tell him what top do, her tone unwavering. They set bones, wash wounds, he puts them at ease, she puts them to sleep. It is quiet at the end, save for the rain beating down on the hills falling in unending, blinding sheets. The outside is a haze of green and grey and the rebels file in, guns at their backs. There are only about a dozen, and he notes that Echo does not number among them. The hopelessness of the situation dawns upon him then. They are being held by an armed militia in the remote hills of Meghalaya. Nobody knows where they are and we’re that not true, no one would want to pick this fight. It’s too dirty, too ugly, too far away from the urban for anyone to truly care to act. He feels a burning at the back of his throat.  _My sister would know what to do. She would fight._  He sits with that for a moment.  Octavia would cut through all that stood in her way, burn down her enemies with no regard for those who might burn with them. Violence may be distasteful recourse but they are in dire straits, innocent people with wounds waiting to be infected. They are bleeding for a war they have no part in. Destruction, however, has never counted among his interests.  _I cannot escape at the expense of innocent lives. I will not._

 _And so it is. No recourse. No escape. In the company of Death_. Death with shadows under bright eyes, nails cleaner than they should be. She is still, and he wants to crawl out of his own skin, mortal coil be damned. 

  
 He doesn’t know if it’s out of envy or frustration, but he wants to shake some clarity from her.

  
“What happens now, princess?”

  
Her jaw clenches, “I am no princess”  

  
He’s being petulant, and decidedly ungodly. He doesn’t care.

  
“Very well, _Clarke_ , how long do you plan to hold us hostage in this charming little cavern?” He tries and fails to keep his tone light and mocking.

  
“I am just as much a hostage as you are. Have been for a few months now”

  
“So all this bloodshed is a result of your presence?”

  
Her eyes flash again and he feels more of that unbecoming smugness at getting a reaction out of her. He feels something else too. If it were aimed at anyone else, he might have called it guilt. When she speaks, she speaks slow and deliberate, almost rote. 

  
“I was volunteering with an organisation that provides healthcare and vaccination to subaltern parts of the world. A few months ago the insurgents attacked the village we were in. I have been trying to keep people alive ever since.”

  
The odds that two semi divine entities somehow ended up doing social work in the same place in the same lifetime is a touch too far beyond belief. His head isn’t even half wrapped around the situation and here she is, making sense. He hates her in this moment. 

  
“Is your kingdom getting overcrowded?”

  
What possessed me to mock her? He doesn’t know what to expect, but it certainly isn’t a short bark of laughter and wry lift of lips.

  
“Something like that” even in humour, she is solemn. 

  
He has a million questions at the tip of his tongue, but the one he yearns to voice is by far the most childish. _Why aren’t you as out of sorts as I am?_ Perhaps it’s a matter of novelty. He is no stranger to divine beings in their ever changing forms. His sister tears her way through life in joy and rage alike. Apollo, today, calls himself Lincoln. He finds new muses everyday and marks their skin with ink, renders them art. But these are gods he knows. Hades is a whispered rumour, a question steeped in shadow. _A blonde woman with a too-steady_ affect _, as it happens_.

Night falls and the rain does not cease. Electric lamps and flashlights illuminate the cave. It is damp misery, but still a far more agreeable predicament than the gaping darkness outside, where ones only guide would be faint, straining moonlight through raging stormclouds

.   
An insurgent with a gun paces the length of the cave, casting vaguely threatening glances in their direction now and then. Bellamy is not impressed, Clarke perhaps even less so. Gods may no longer be all powerful beings, rather they are guardians, influencers. They exist in the space between the tangible and the sacred. _But is death not definitive? She doesn’t need to be in this situation._

  
“Why didn’t you escape? Put them all to sleep?” 

  
“There were too many wounded. The rebel forces aren’t out to kill civilians, but they don’t care about collateral damage.” 

  
“Why does it matter to you so much?”

  
“I could ask you the same question”

  
“To grow is my nature. I came here to preserve life, even in violence.” 

  
He feels that weight again and looks over at Clarke. Her back is ramrod straight and she looks alert but he feels the weariness all over her like an anvil. Instinctively, he tries to ease it. She jerks then, and looks over at him with wide eyes. For the first time since he first saw her, she seems to lose that sense of control that dictates her every move. 

  
“How did you do that?”

  
He shrugs, “The same way you put me to sleep, I suppose.” 

  
She looks at him for a long time, the weight he feels around her has been lifted by a measure, but her gaze betrays puzzlement. After a long while, how long he cannot say, she seems to come to some conclusion. 

  
“They will take us to the camp in the morning. There will be more wounded, more sick, and they need you. They need us. Once we figure out the scale of their operation, we can find a way out. Till then, we minimise the damage. We keep watch.” 

  
There is steel in her voice, he hears it clearly. She is unyielding, analytical, protective. So much like him and yet his inverse by her very nature. He nods, she exhales. The rain is still beating down outside the cave. He feels a wave of fatigue roll over him and lowers himself down, leaning against the wall of the cave and closes his eyes. Moments later, he feels her settle down beside him. There is some warmth from the proximity and he finds that it’s almost reassuring. 

  
Then in a whisper, barely a breath, she says, “my nature and my realm do not always align.” 

  
He does not open his eyes, but he understands. Neither of them speak.

Sleep comes, and waking only serves as a cold reminder of the events of the past day. Dawn has not yet broken but the rain has stopped. The smell of wet earth comforts him even in these dire straits. He catches a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. She is braiding her hair back, an act so casual he forgets who she is for a moment. He forgets where they are. 

  
“They’re coming,” she murmurs, “We’ll be blindfolded. Anyone who tries to run will be shot. Can you make sure they don’t panic?” 

  
She isn’t looking at him, but he sees her tense, somehow battle ready and battleworn in the space of a heartbeat. The cave is saturated with anguish and fear. He tries to ease it, quieten the panic as heavy bootsteps ring out and they are none too gently bound at the wrists and the eyes. Bellamy feels something suspiciously like the muzzle of a rifle poking at his back and hastens. He knows she is right next to him. 

  
They are loaded into large vehicles. In complete darkness he can hear muffled sobs and whimpers and right beside him, soft, unfaltering breaths. Their blindfolds are removed once they are in the vehicles but there is no light regardless.

  
She says, “It’s going to be a long ride. Might as well get some rest.”

  
“Is this you asking my permission to knock me unconscious?” 

  
“Not just you”

  
“Are you always this evasive with matters of consent?”

  
“Unfortunately, _soteira_ , those in my realm rarely consent to being there.”

  
_Soteira_ , she called him. _Saviour_. They called him that thousands of years ago, in ancient Arcadia. He cannot tell if she means it as a jab, but there is no malice in her voice. Just a melancholy sort of humour. 

  
The sobs grow louder, prayers are whispered and they come out broken, harsh, hopeless. 

  
“They shouldn’t suffer the entire way,” he doesn’t know why he offers his tacit acquiescence but the sounds don’t quiet to peaceful breathing until he does so. She has not, he realises, put him to sleep. 

“Well now I feel left out” a feeble attempt at a joke.

  
She replies with unexpected candor, “I could use some company.” 

  
He understands the shadows under her eyes then, the heaviness that surrounds her. She puts people to rest with healing hands, gifts them a few moments of oblivion. Yet it seems this peace is one thing she cannot bestow upon herself. As sobs quieten to sighs, he feels the leaden weight around her, trying to drag her down. 

  
He asks her, “Why do you bear it?”

  
He knows the answer before she replies, “So that they don’t have to.” 

  
The ride is longer than he expected. It is dark and bumpy, spent mostly in companionable silence and fitful rest. Clarke wakes everyone up a half hour before they come to a stop and he tries to keep them calm. Some of the volunteers from his group ask him what will happen in hushed panicked tones. He cannot make them any promises. All he can do is ask them to stay sharp, and to trust him. 

  
“How do you know the doctor?” Ksan asks him in broken English. They avoid speaking the regional language, for fear of being overheard by the insurgents. 

  
“I have never met her before” _Perhaps I have felt her presence in battlegrounds and broken places. But I do not know her._

  
Ksan looks suspicious but does not push further. He’s still in pain from his shattered leg, his face is white and his limbs tremble. Yet there is rage in his eyes, and Bellamy sees his sister in them. The vehicle lurches to a stop and the doors open to a grey afternoon. The terrain is the same, an incline of lush green and mossy rocks and the sound of waterfalls. Bellamy's legs spasm as they are herded towards the campsite, his wrists red and chafed from the bonds. 

  
 Some of the villagers collapse, too weak to walk, and he instinctively reaches towards them. So, he notices, does Clarke. Rough hands pull the both of them back and a rush of anger and frustration moves him to struggle.

  
“Move again and I will shoot you”, the voice growling in his ear is familiar.

  
“Roan?” 

  
He supposes it shouldn’t come as a shock. Roans sister is an insurgent, it tracks. 

  
“Roan, these people are hurt. They cannot make the walk alone. Let us help them!” Clarke has a gun to her back as well, but she speaks with a ferocity that is so far removed from her usual neutral cadence.

  
To his surprise, Roan lets go of him and makes his way towards her. He looms over her, so tall, and she holds his gaze, unwavering. There’s a flash of a knife and Bellamy swears he feels his heart stop for a moment. He is not human, and far be it for him to let sentiment become a paralytic, but if he were one might say the lurch within him was out of terror. 

  
Rather than being witness to a bloodletting, though, he sees Roan cut her bonds and motion towards him. He’s glaring at her, but there is only vague annoyance rather than any actual heat behind it. She rolls her eyes at Roan before walking past him. There is familiarity in the interaction, perhaps even a measure of warmth. All the suspicion that she had quelled within Bellamy comes rushing back as she approaches him. _How was I this easily manipulated?_  

  
Her hands are cold as she frees his wrists. They are raw, as are hers. Vivid red against her ivory skin. He says nothing, doesn’t look up at her.

  
“Is there a problem?” 

  
He tries to contain himself, keep his voice as infuriatingly level as hers always is. Still, he is a god, he is angry, and he has never been subtle.

  
“For someone who claims to be a prisoner, you seem quite friendly with your captors” 

  
She sighs, “They are not a monolith of evil, you know this.” 

  
“It is no excuse.”

  
He shoulders past her and she blocks his path, hands on his shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes. 

  
“Bellamy, violence doesn’t erupt in a vacuum. These people have real grievances.” 

  
“And grievances warrant attacking innocents?” 

  
“Of course not”, she raises her voice, more earnest than he has ever heard from her before, “all I’m saying is that it isn’t as simple as for or against. We must reach a middle ground.” 

  
“Is there a middle ground between life and death?” 

  
Another sigh, this time more frustrated, “We can discuss moral relativism after reaching the camp.” 

  
As she starts towards the injured prisoners, he thinks he hears her mutter “infuriating” under her breath. Despite his anger, he feels a twisted sort of satisfaction. He bites back a smile. 

  
The walk is short but steep. The injured lean on him, Clarke, and some of the more able bodied prisoners. They make their way down the thickly wooded hill, with insurgent guards watching their every move. 

  
The camp is a ramshackle set of what can vaguely be defined as ‘shelters’. Blue plastic tarps and sheets of corrugated iron serve as respite from the elements. A smattering of canvas tents are dispersed throughout. There are small fires where insurgents and prisoners alike gratefully huddle to escape the damp chill. There’s a makeshift infirmary, larger and more sheltered with a few IV drips, refrigerated blood bags, and basic instruments of first aid. It’s a haphazard approximation of what amounts to survival, which begs the question, _why take prisoners at all?_

  
The guards bark orders at them, embellishing with appropriate threats. Duties are outlined, with the able bodied captives immediately set to task and the injured stumbling to the infirmary. Clarke is already there, tending to a woman with a nasty open wound on her abdomen. She is far too pale, and her breathing is shallow.  
“It hurts, doctor”, she can barely choke out the words. 

  
Clarke caresses her face, “I know. I’m going to try to make it better.”

   
She walks to the guard on duty, “The wound is infected. She won’t survive much longer without a hospital”

  
“Then she won’t survive”

  
“I want to talk to Roan”

  
“Fuck off!”

  
She fixes the guard with a glare then, her head at a slight tilt, eyes narrowed fractionally, and Bellamy understands all at once why death is feared. It is an icy, bitter stare, stripping all artifice and exposing every bit of whoever may receive it. 

  
“I will not ask again. I want to talk to Roan.”, her voice has lowered an octave. Not quite a threat but the suggestion of great darkness. _This is Hades speaking_. He can feel her power in her whispered demand. The guard’s eyes widen. He nods once and turns on his heel. 

  
She makes her way to Bellamy.

“I don’t think Roan will sanction a hospital trip”

  
“Not even in the name of your friendship?” 

  
She shoots him a flat glance for the jab but continues, “There is a stream a few miles away. You must have noticed the naiads.”

  
“Are they here?”

  
“Them and others, yes. There is healing algae in the water.” 

  
_The spirits are protecting these people in whatever way they can._  “I take it they aren’t healing by accident?”

  
The corner of his mouth lifts, and she mirrors him. He tries very hard not to notice the brightening of her eyes. 

  
“I’m assuming you have a plan?” 

  
“Roan will accompany us.”

  
The now familiar anger reads itself within himself again, but he clenches his jaw and continues, “So does he know everything?”

  
"No. He does listen to reason on occasion though, and he has seen the algae work before."

  
He doesn't like it. The pain is palpable in the air and he hates that he must work with their captors, yet he senses no treachery in Clarke.  _Either she has put me under her influence or she is truly helping_. The former is more likely, he reasons, yet he finds himself nodding. It is not as unsettling as he believes it should be. 


	2. Chapter 2

Divinity takes on strange forms in these times. The time of temples and sacrifice in the name of Springtime has passed. Bellamy is in books and stories, more mythic than divine. He bears no resentment, mortals owe him nothing. So he walks the earth, a presence but not a force. Some spirits are different though. Some shake through the trees and fill you with hope or dread depending on how you've treated them . Other forms are half human, some none at all. Some make themselves visible to mortal, if only for a moment, sparking doubt and belief and colouring perceptions with the suggestion of beyond. Of the spirits here, some are familiar. He sees _dryads_ shift and giggle at the sight of him, only to pale and disappear with Clarke at his side.

 

_Hamadryads_ keep watch, he feels their eyes on him and Clarke. They do not fear her, they know her well. Their presence calms him. These spirits have always been friends to him, a symbiotic bond they both share with the ground engendering a need to protect it. He feels something melt away, some exhaustion within him he hadn't even realised he was carrying. 

  
Clarke, however, is tense. Her jaw is clenched and she keeps her gaze focussed on the ground and the path ahead. He tries to put her at ease once again, out of instinct and definitely not concern, he tells himself, and once again her eyes cut to him with a spark of surprise for a moment as her shoulders relax by a fraction. Still, there's an almost nervous energy about her, as if she is troubled by the fact that she is feared by these spirits. He scoffs at the thought. _I doubt she has ever known uncertainty._

  
There are other spirits too, native spirits. He senses them, and knows that they are ancient, their power palpable but foreign and unfamiliar to him, and energies within them the scope of which even he cannot begin to comprehend. Nebulous in form, at least to him, he catches glimpses in the rustling leaves, between damp, mossy rocks, keeping vigil. He may not be a malevolent force, but these spirits are bonded to their people and as far as they know, regardless of divinity, he is an interloper on their land. 

  
They make their way down the hill, walking a fairly clear path for about a mile. 

Roan and another insurgent follow behind him and Clarke, hyper-vigilant, guns at the ready. Bellamy fights the urge to roll his eyes. These woods have so many mystical forces residing in them, becoming more palpable the deeper they go. Even mortals can sense it, and just as with any other things they do not understand, their first instinct is to react out of fear or apprehension. _These spirits are kind to them. They will not be so kind when they shoot and burn and destroy that which gives them life._

  
"Can you tell your friends to drop the guns? They aren't winning any favours with the residents of these hills" he whispers to Clarke. 

  
She ignores the jab, "I don't think mortals with guns are what they're truly afraid of." her voice is strained. He feels a pang of guilt. He has never been looked at with fear or anger or mistrust simply for existing. 

  
"Even so, it isn't helping."

  
She nods once, and turns to Roan, "I think you'd be better suited to keeping your balance if you had your hands free."

  
Her insolence is rewarded with a glare from Roan and a rifle in her face from his fellow rebel. She doesn't flinch. Roan continues to glower, "Just keep moving."

  
Clarke sighs, "Where would we even run?" 

  
"He said keep moving!", the man with a gun pointed at Clarke takes a threatening step forward. Bellamy finds himself moving towards them, trying to get her behind him, to what end he does not stop to think. Before he can though Clarke's face hardens and she looks straight past the gun, into the rebel's eyes. His aim falters.

  
"Tell your boy to take several steps back."

  
Roan tilts his face up, as if praying for patience. Bellamy knows the feeling.

 

"Enough, Esop."

  
With the situation thus diffused, they continue on and the sound of rushing water becomes louder and louder. They finally reach the river, and it rushes and foams, relentless, furious. Though his limbs are tired, Bellamy feels energised. He sees freshwater naiads, translucent and ghostly, only visible for moments before they wash away with the water. He hears them laugh and it mixes with the gurgling of the sinuous brooks that separate from the river. Some of them see him and smile, and he cannot help but return it. Then something strikes him, "There's no algae."

  
"The rain made the rivers swell. We'll need to go downhill to a waterfall. The stagnant rock pools will have some."

  
Suddenly, he gets a faceful of river water, soaking him to the skin.  Incredulously he turns to see a naiad grinning in their direction. She winks at Clarke before disappearing into the frothy rapids. She's pointedly looking away from him, shoulders shaking.

  
"Are you laughing at me?"

  
"I am....trying very hard not to."

  
Then, almost of its own accord, her mouth stretches into a smile and for a few moments, she is laughing, and he forgets to be annoyed. He forgets everything but her. She looks over at him, eyes bright, amused. He is struck dumb, and he barely hears her say, "There are few things more entertaining than nymphs trying to flirt."

   
He tries not to notice her eyes lingering on him as she walks past him and heads downriver. Walking down steep hills by a raging river is a slippery business and requires a measure of focus. Yet, despite navigating loose rocks and the occasional tittering of forest nymphs trying to catch his attention, all he remembers is Hades', _Clarke's_  laugh. He did not think her capable of lightness or joy, and yet there it was. Fleeting, and quiet, but there it was, shattering her control for a few precious seconds. She's a few paces ahead of him, and the shadowy mass he always felt dragging her down seems to have almost disappeared. He sees her breathe in deep and savour the spray of the water. She is soft like this, and it unsettles him that he is having trouble keeping his own heartbeat steady. 

  
"The spirits here do not seem to fear you"

  
She turns her head halfway, "They know me."

They finally reach a waterfall with shallow, still pools at the bottom. At the edges of the pools, rust red algae gathers, but there isn't much of it

"This will not be enough. The disturbance from the rain must have washed it away" Clarke's voice is bitter and resigned. All the ease he had glimpsed just seconds ago was gone. He looks into the water, and tries to focus. He sees a vague face within and it looks back at him. It seems to be shaped by the water, like the hamadryads of the trees. He holds the spirit's gaze, trying to communicate his intentions. This is not a playful naiad, provocative or helpful depending on their whims, but a being borne of this land and these waters. He is a stranger to this being.

He lets down his guard, tries to show it that he can be trusted. The face ripples in the water and dissipates. Bellamy understands. With a half smile he says, "I wouldn't worry about it."

  
He kneels and submerged his hands the water. On contact, like rainclouds gathering, it multiplies and blooms. A handful in the corner grows to cover the entire pool. He hears a soft inhale behind him. Clarke's eyes are wide, her mouth quirked up at the corner. Her expression turns wry and she says, "That is quite the trick."

  
These are shades of her he didn't think existed. Then again, nothing about her has been expected. 

  
They gather the algae as they require it and head towards Roan and Esop, who await them at the top of the falls.

   
"We need to make a poultice. It won't completely eliminate the risk of infection but without a hospital, it is the best we can do.", says Clarke

  
"And if it doesn't work?"

  
"Then it seems my realm will a few new residents." There's a sardonic, resigned air to her tone. 

  
"Won't Roan sanction a trip?"

  
She raises an eyebrow, skeptical, "You saw how well that went when I asked him. They can barely get away with smuggling medical supplies."

  
"Perhaps they shouldn't be creating situations where medical supplies are a requirement in the first place."

  
She sighs, "I grant that their methods are....let's say unsavoury, but their actions are not out of meaningless cruelty."

  
"Cruelty is cruelty. No violence is justified."

  
She snorts, "You have as much regard for nuance as Ares."

  
"Perhaps my sister rubbed off on me these past few decades."

  
"Your sister?"

"Is Ares"

  
"Your sister is Ares?"

  
She stares at him, dubious. It's almost as if she's waiting for him to tell her he's joking. He spares her a glance and shrugs. She takes a beat to process this, "That has to be interesting."

  
"It took some getting used to. But she's Octavia too. I love her just the same."

  
"Even though evidently you are against everything she stands for."

It is said without accusation, simply stated as a truth. He aims to lighten the mood, "That is an unfortunate hazard of our predicament."

  
It's a strange phenomenon, this constant reincarnation. Immortality means they can take whatever form they desire. After the age of the Pantheon, when different divinities became prevalent, they lost their dominion on Earthly matters, but did not cease to exist. Most of them chose to reincarnate, taking on mortal identities that became beasts of their own. They contend with life after life, mortal selfhood counterbalanced by divine identity. In some lifetimes, he has known and interacted with other gods, and in some he has never met them. Never in any has been related to one, and never in any has he been exchanging banter with Death itself. 

  
"Have you met any of the others? Other than Are-Octavia, was it?"

  
He nods, "Apollo. He's a tattoo artist called Lincoln."

  
"Is he as good as he no doubt claims he'll be?"

  
At that he lets out a bark of laughter, "The years have tempered his ego. He lets other people sing his praises now."

  
"And how did you come by this tattoo artist?"

  
"I came by him in Octavia's bed when she was 18."

  
 Her mouth drops open at this, and she seems to have trouble forming a sentence. He grins. That day was the day he swore never to consider anything beyond the realm of possibility. That was, until he met Clarke and she made him her assistant medic with barely a blink.  _I suppose I needed the reminder_. Finally, she gathers herself,

"This is quite the interesting lifetime." Her voice has her usual measured meter to it, but this time it's tinged with disbelief and a hint of amusement. It sounds sweeter this way, he thinks. 

  
"And you? Any encounters?"

  
"None quite as intimate as yours," he shoots her a droll look and she smirks, continuing, "but I did meet Hephaestus during my medical residency." 

  
_Interesting_ , he thinks, _he two gods who prefer to remain in the periphery found each other_. It fits

.   
"Is he still an eyesore?" the tasteless joke earns him a disapproving eyebrow raise

  
" _She_  is the furthest thing from it."

  
"Does she have a name?"

  
"Raven Reyes. She's a mechanic."

  
"Garage?"

  
"NASA" 

  
"Impressive."

  
"That she is", she says fondly. There's a hint of mischief in her eyes, leading him to believe that his sister wasn't the only one doing some ambrosial fraternisation. He shakes his head in amusement, exasperation and a strange sort of discomfort he tries not to read into. 

  
"Am I the only one who _hasn't_  slept with another Olympian?" 

  
She gives him a suspicious look, "What, in any lifetime?"

  
"I didn't say that." 

  
Immortals and their dalliances will never cease, and he is not ashamed to admit that he has had his liaisons over the centuries. It is near second nature to them, yet surmising that Hades, too, shares these proclivities awaken a strange sort of conflict that is somewhat hypocritical. He can't help but ask, "So you and Raven Reyes are amorous?"

  
She snorts, "We have had the odd encounter, but we are friends. Amorous is not something I am capable of." 

  
If there is any part of her that it wistful, she hides it well. If the nagging discomfort Bellamy feels has anything to do with this conversation, he hopes he hides it just as well. 

 

Sundown approaches by the time they arrive at camp. Under Clarke's instruction, they mix together a poultice before night falls. The work is quick and methodical. Once applied on serious open wounds, there is nothing to do but wait. Rather than letting the patients spend the night in pain and discomfort, he sees Clarke put them to sleep, affording them some rest. His anger mounts at the rebels and the damage they have caused. 

  
"How can you condone this?", he whispers to her under his breath as they sit by a small fire. He is not accusing her of anything, but he cannot keep the harshness out of his voice.

  
"I don't condone it. I can't control it either."

  
"You are the commander of Death, don't tell me there's nothing you can do."

  
"It is not as simple as that. I have no dominion over human actions." 

  
"Then why are you here?"

  
 She lets out a breath, and dryly says, "That is a long and rather melodramatic conversation."

  
"I wouldn't expect anything less." 

  
The ghost of a smile passes over her face, but it is bitter and wistful and so far removed from when they were by the river. 

  
"My realm is no longer a physical plane, but I assume you guessed this?"

  
Bellamy nods, and she continues, "Even so, I can feel them. Every single death every moment of every day. It became a buzzing in my head but I can still feel all of them."

  
She takes a pause, and the magnitude of what she experiences all the time hits him. He understands the feeling. He is connected to the yield of the earth, he feels that growth in his bones every moment, and it gives him strength. What strength can Clarke find in decay? He cannot even begin to imagine the burden. He can barely look her in the eyes. 

  
"At first it drove me completely mad. I had not walked the earth as human before and seeing them live made it that much harder to feel them die. Mortals thought I was possessed, others thought me a witch, and I was treated accordingly. To be fair, they weren't entirely wrong."  That gallows humour again, and Bellamy's rage burgeons. _How much pain have they caused her?_

  
"It was easy to latch on to every death. Some were peaceful, rest after a life well lived. Some were deserved, some inevitable, some painful. All of them were in my head and I was so overwhelmed. I was also confused. I hold dominion over death, yet I am immortal. Being human meant understanding firsthand things like pain and sentiment and morality. But death was my realm, and it was within me and around me, and yet I could never really experience it. Eventually I learned to let them all blend into each other, and focussed on life instead. That didn't really help matters, given how much living mortals think about death," she breaks off with a half-chuckle and he can't help but smile a little. _Not just living mortals. Not anymore, at least._

  
"But it was - and still is - strange. I try to preserve life because it has more value to me than what comes after, or what ends it, or whatever it may be, I don't know anymore. Isn't it bizarre that _I_  don't know?"

  
"It is certainly inconvenient, I have about a million questions."

  
She snorts, "Well it seems you'd be asking the wrong person. Any answers I may be able to give aren't facts. It isn't as straightforward as vegetation." there's no malice in her teasing. _There's no malice in any part of her_ , he realises. Death is not malevolent, or at least _she_  isn't. It was something he sensed in her since he opened his eyes to her tending to wounds with clinical detachment. He has seen her be helpful, cold, and even joyous since them. It should not surprise him, and it doesn't, but there's an ache in his chest. An ache that he generally associated with guilt. _I_ _judged her so harshly based on what? Fear? Prejudice? How am I any different from the humans with guns?_

Here she was, an island, cut off from her realm, completely alone in the world. Not as Clarke Griffin, but as Hades, flung from space, displaced, with no bearings and the mandate to make a life. To make several lives over and over with no understanding of what her purpose was. It was easy enough for him to carve out his own objectives, given where his divinity lay. 

"So you feel every death but not what comes after."

"I suppose there are all kinds of 'afters' now," she says casually, as if it's common knowledge.

He blinks, "Wait, are you about to tell me that it's all metaphorical." "I don't know,   _soteira_. I stopped asking these questions."

"How would one do that?"

"Do you ask yourself about how things grow?"

He shrugs, "Photosynthesis."

A surprised laugh bubbles out of her at that, and he smiles. So many things about her are becoming clearer, and yet she sits before him more a mystery than ever. They lapse into comfortable silence. Soon after, Esop walks over and tosses some tarp at him. He turns to Clarke, "He's with you," he growls, shooting them both a dirty glance and striding away.

Clarke looks vaguely surprised, but nods and starts to get up, "We should sleep. Tomorrow we'll see if the poultice helped at all."

 

They head to a tent, or at least a vague iteration of a tent, and he lays down his tarp, 

  
"how come we're not with the rest of them?"

  
She shrugs, "I was isolated because I suppose I was helpful, foreign, and they needed to keep an eye on me. Perhaps they did the same for you."

  
"I am no doctor."

  
"No, but they might they sense what else you are. Some people do."

  
"Would it not make more sense to separate us, then?"

  
She looks up at him, dry smile in place, there is a spark of mischief in her eyes, "I suppose it would. But let us keep that to ourselves."

  
They lay down next to each other, the size of the tent not allowing for much distance. The wind howls through the trees, and the flimsy material their shelter is made of strains to release itself. Yet all Bellamy can truly pay attention to is the warmth, and he knows that it is not his own. He turns his thoughts to the past two days, and his conversations with Clarke. In the span of time that is a speck compared to his years on Earth, he has witnessed Death go from a storied malicious force to a complicated woman who has been in far more pain than she deserves. For all his empathy, his assimilation into humanity, he has never felt more mortal than he does now, lying next to another God, his mind in overdrive and his heart in his throat. She is squirming, restless, and he finds himself both troubled and amused. 

  
"Do you mind thinking a little quieter, I am trying to sleep", she grumbles.

  
"As am I, princess-", he hears an irritated sigh, "But I seem to be having about as much trouble as you."

  
"I could help with that. Both of us don't need to be sleep deprived."

  
He considers it. It has been a taxing day, and yet he cannot quite stomach her tossing and turning on her own. In the dark she sees her extending her hand, and he catches her wrist. Ignoring the rapid pulse beating a tattoo against the softness of her skin he whispers, "I'd rather not give you that kind of power over me."

  
A huff of laughter, "You wouldn't have a choice."

  
"Then I'd rather keep you company."

  
To this she says nothing, and if he waits perhaps a moment too long to release her hand, of this too she says nothing. And if his own feels empty after, he says nothing. He focuses on sound. Her body shifting, her breathing that slowly, slowly evens out. Only then does he let his eyes fall closed. 

He wakes up to a curtain of golden hair, and blue eyes beaming down at him. All at once, it hits him and he needs to remember how to breathe.

   
"What did you do?", it's breathless and full of wonder and completely unlike her. Any grogginess he might feel vanishes at the sound of her voice.

  
"What did I do?"

  
She takes his hand and pulls him to his feet. She makes him clumsier than he has ever been, and her hand, tugging at him almost like a child would, is soft and warm and all the things she tries so hard not to be. _Perhaps Death is a shapeshifter_ , he muses. _One might see tragedy, another joy. Perhaps it is all those things and so is she._

She doesn't let go of his hand when they come out into the light. She doesn't let go has she half drags him to the infirmary, nor when she takes him to the woman who had an infected wound to the abdomen and was on her last legs just a day ago. There is colour in her cheeks as she sleeps, and her breathing is slow and easy. Clarke finally drops his hand, and and the absence is almost as unfamiliar as the contact. She lifts the poultice carefully, but her eyes are on him, as if watching for a reaction. He sees the wound, still deep and unsettling but not angry red, not dark at the edges. The sores around the wound are gone, and the pus and clotted blood. The poultice worked as he assumed it would, and Clarke's elation is confusing, though definitely not unwelcome.

"Is this not how the algae works?"

"Nowhere near this well," she says, her tone reverted to cool and steady, but her shining eyes still smile up at him, standing out like jewels in the dark of a cave.

It makes sense that he may have heightened the healing properties of the substance without realising it. What doesn't make sense is her, which is something he figures he should be used to by now.

She starts preparing to stitch up the wound, with the woman still fast asleep.

"Won't the pain wake her up?"

"Nothing will wake her up unless I want her to."

They check up on the rest of the injured, Clarke occasionally calling on others for assistance.

 

It's a strange series of circumstances that have brought them together. The planet is vast, and to find each other on a contested spot of green that most people would miss on a map cannot be anything but the work of the Fates. He has pondered that several times over the past few days. _Perhaps it all means something bigger than I can see. Perhaps there is something we are meant to do here_. It irritates him, this bald-faced manipulation. He is no hero of the golden age, born for glory and tragedy. Yet these contemplations take a back seat to Clarke's assured voice, instructing him on how to help the only way he can.

He sees her put so many people to sleep, saving them considerable agony. He does not know how long she has been here, nor does he know why she hasn't planned an escape. She has shown herself to be more than capable.

He brings it up at sundown, when all the work is done. The day has been long. He has been floating between the infirmary, the kitchens. The insurgents need their able bodied captives to do the menial work while they patrol and strategise on their own. No one is in chains because there is absolutely nowhere to run. They are at the mercy of the rifle or the mountains. Somehow the freedom of movement makes it even more oppressive. Then, of course, there are the personal enquiries. Every so often a couple of the prisoners are brought into the largest tent. When they emerge, they emerge with bruises blooming angry shades of purple, cuts dripping blood onto the ground.

All the breathless exhilaration of the morning turns to ash the first time, as a boy who cannot be older than fifteen stumbles out, whitefaced. He falls, prone, his shattered kneecap completely unable to hold his weight. His rage worsens, and he tries to clamp down on it, tension singing in every bone. When they finally sit down by the fire together, with harvested rainwater and meagre rations, he has tried in vain to numb himself, as she told him she had over the many years. It turns out compartmentalising does not number among his talents.

"They are torturing these people, Clarke! How long will you choose to be witness-", he stops abruptly. Something is wrong.

She is pale, paler than he has seen her, staring straight into the fire, so still he is almost afraid to disturb her. The weight around her engulfs everything, and he sees an abyss. The flames seem to set her hair alight, and reflect in the inky black of her eyes.   _This is the Underworld_ , he thinks. _This is the end all mortals fear_. For the first time since he met her, he is terrified.

 He tries to use his abilities but her eyes cut to his and he understands that she does not wish to be calmed. There is none of that control which has become her defining trait. She is still as death.

"You didn't know, did you?", he can barely hear his own voice he's so quiet.

He does not know how long she waits to reply to him but when she does her voice is pitch black, flat, "This is the first time."

  
A chill runs down his spine at those words, because three realities dawn upon him, none of which are especially calming. First, something has changed for the insurgents significantly. Second, this is uncharted territory for both himself and Clarke, which means that neither of them can be sure what will transpire in the coming days and what lives may be lost. Third, Clarke is angry. Genuinely, terrifyingly angry. He does not know what the consequences of that will be. 

He takes it on confidence that she will do nothing to harm him when he continues, "What do you think it means?" 

With a deep breath, she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her voice is back to her normal, somber dulcet, "It means they are getting desperate and it means that the situation will only get worse."

  
"It means we need a plan."

  
She looks him in the eye and nods, "It means we need a plan." 

"Are you alright?" he asks tentatively.

"I'm angry."

"You don't say."

"I cooperated because they assured me this was temporary."

"They being-"

"Roan"

"I do not understand why you  trust him."

"He gave me enough reason to. Besides, he isn't here today, I doubt he'd have allowed it."

"Have you considered the fact that he may have ordered it."

"I will have words with him when he gets back."

"And you think he'll listen to you."

She pauses at that to consider and then says decisively, "Not even a little bit."

_Reassuring._

They discuss the ins and outs of a possible escape plan in hushed Greek. Leaving the rest behind is not an option for either of them. The biggest challenges they face are their remote location, the lack of communicative devices, the number of people who would need to be transported, and the fact that the insurgents had massive amounts of firepower. With so many injured and out of commission, there would be no quick, efficient way to move anyone. The only option would to collect intelligence and get the lay of the land. This meant cooperation and earning the trust of the rebels. Bellamy thought of the forest and river spirits offering silent support. He was fairly confident that he could convince them to help. It wasn't much of a strategy, but the bones of the plan were forming. It would be slow, and the chances of success were extremely slim, but they were there. Hopefully with some divine persuasion the militia could be compelled to ease up on the torture, but neither of them were too hopeful. The goal was to end suffering, however it may take form. When they slept, every breath and heartbeat was in tandem.  _There is work to be done._  


End file.
